


This World is Cruel

by Snowfilly1



Category: Good Omens (TV), Good Omens - Neil Gaiman & Terry Pratchett
Genre: Angst, Anxious Crowley (Good Omens), Awake The Snake, Aziraphale Loves Crowley (Good Omens), COVID-19, First Kiss, First Time, Getting Together, Happy Ending, Inspired by Real Events, M/M, Mild Sexual Content, Post-Episode: Good Omens: Lockdown, Protective Aziraphale (Good Omens), Quote: I'm setting my alarm for July, lockdown - Freeform
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-06-30
Updated: 2020-06-30
Packaged: 2021-03-04 23:14:29
Rating: Mature
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,029
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/25004494
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Snowfilly1/pseuds/Snowfilly1
Summary: "July, is the first proper thought he manages. It's July, and Aziraphale will be waiting for him.He doesn't want to look outside, open the blinds. It's just cars. Normal London traffic. Honestly. It's not hearses, it's not a death march that he can hear. London's alive out there. He'd know if it wasn't."Crowley's alarm goes off, bringing him back to a world he's been avoiding for a couple of months and a conversation with his angel.
Relationships: Aziraphale/Crowley (Good Omens)
Comments: 54
Kudos: 201
Collections: AwakeTheSnake





	This World is Cruel

**Author's Note:**

  * For [DaydreamingofDragons](https://archiveofourown.org/users/DaydreamingofDragons/gifts).



> This fic explicitly takes place in London on the 1st July 2020 and talks about real world effects of the pandemic. Death figures and death of un-named people are mentioned, as well as various small details of life under lockdown. No-one is ill nor are symptoms discussed but I entirely understand if this is too close to home for anyone. Please read with caution. 
> 
> Title is, of course, from Queen's 'You're my Best Friend.'
> 
> This is for DaydreamingofDragons, my best friend, for everything since all this begun.

The alarm forces itself into his awareness. Pushes Crowley into something that might pass for consciousness.

For a long while, there's only noise. A jangle of sounds; he's not stupid enough to waste a song or something he actually likes on an alarm tone and it's discordant enough that he can't focus on anything else.

July is the first proper thought he manages. It's July, and Aziraphale will be waiting for him, or...He shoves his glasses on before turning the alarm off, as though they'll be any defence against the world.

Crowley listens, a curled line of tension against the stark black lines of his bed.

Cars.

Cars down below, and quite a few of them, so...

He tells himself they're not ambulances. He'd be able to tell if they were, somehow. Surely.

It's just cars. Normal London traffic.

Honestly. It's not hearses, it's not a death march that he can hear. London's alive out there.

His mobile is in his hand before he finishes that thought. If the world is alright, that means Aziraphale is alright and there's nothing to worry about, they'll be able to meet up.

Unless there's still rules in place?

He ought to check first. Make sure.

Don't give Aziraphale another reason to turn him away. Maybe he can go back to sleep and wake up once this is really, really over; surely Aziraphale will come and wake him?

Maybe not. He hadn't wanted Crowley over there before, had he?

He drops the mobile before he can convince himself to call the angel or check the internet. While he doesn't know, it's fine. He can go and shower, check the plants, and while he does all that, everything will be alright and he'll be going to see his angel in a few minutes...

His angel...Crowley rubs his face. Tries to scrub away that thought.

He keeps up the pretence as he showers. The world is alright. London still has running water and electric and (don't think that maybe it's a demonic miracle, that the shower's running because he's expecting it to, summoning water out of empty pipes and heat from some empty wasteland or perhaps they're burning the bodies...)

No.

He shakes his head to drive the thoughts out. Flicks water off of now shoulder length hair.

It's fine. It has to be.

He stands under the spray, as hot as even he can take it. Counts minutes and seconds and stars in his head, trying to focus on anything else. It isn't the fourteenth century again.

Flicks the blinds open as he dresses; turns away so he doesn't have to look.

_You went through the proper end of the world already, remember? Not some bloody plague, the actual end of the world._

_That was different,_ he snarls to himself. There's a roughness to readying himself the human way; the drag of the towel against damp skin, the constriction of the shirt pulled tight against his chest. Grounding. Tugs his thoughts away from everything he can hear below.

_It was different. Aziraphale was there._

Aziraphale is a few miles and a phone call away. He thinks - he's never proven but he suspects - if he phoned and said 'Aziraphale, I need you,' the angel would come. He could call Aziraphale and ask and be told what's happening without needing to look outside.

6,000 years of not being able to call him outweighs the few months when it's been different. Crowley makes himself look.

Fever hot air is the first thing he notices. Cars and a few people on the pavement and a slash of colour that's a hand drawn rainbow in a window. A kid walking alongside a parent, both wearing strawberry red facemasks. It looks very much like the world he'd fallen asleep in a couple of months ago.

He exhales a breath he doesn't need; yells at sleep soft muscles that they do not need to tremble with relief.

***

The bed is comfortable. That's why he sits down to call Aziraphale. No other reason.

'I'm afraid the shop isn't currently open. I will -'

'Aziraphale.'

'Oh. My dear boy,' and Aziraphale sounds like he's smiling. That isn't Crowley hoping and dreaming, is it? (He can remember most of his dreams since April. He doesn't want to admit to them, even to himself.)

'Are you...' He swallows. 'Are you alright? Is everything...' Words feel like they've been washed away by relief.

'Yes. Yes. I'm well. No more burglars. I was hoping. I mean. I'm glad you're awake.'

 _I missed you,_ are three words Crowley's never spoken to his angel. There are another three words he's never spoken, ones that he doesn't dare profane with his too sharp teeth, his split demonic tongue.

These ones, this time, he lets them spill. 'Angel, I missed you.'

There's a noise that he wants to believe means something. That isn't laughter, or if it is, it's loving, or it's joy or something.

'I've missed you too, Crowley,' and he's glad he's already sitting down because the careless assurance Aziraphale gives the words shocks him. The angel says it as though there's no room for doubt.

There's a long silence. Crowley listens to the world outside his window, still not ended, and the angel pacing his bookshop.

'You could come over. If you wanted. We're allowed.'

There's a moment where he wants to say something about cake. Make it funny, make it not matter. He can't manage it. 'I'd like that, angel.'

***

The Bentley seems glad to see him, music starting as soon as he snaps his fingers to clean a couple of months of pigeon shit off the windscreen and doors. He pats her in return and drives more slowly than normal, looking around.

It's not quite normal. Nothing is.

People queuing outside shops. White lines on the pavements everywhere. Closed signs hanging on doors.

And yet, people are laughing. He tries to hang on to that as he parks and walks across; gathering himself. The air is still heavy and too warm, unsatisfying when he tries to haul in a deep breath that he doesn't need anyway.

Crowley has spent too long in Hell not to be able to identify the feeling on the air. Fear pushed down, forced down until it's contained enough that you can live with it, carry on and do the things that need doing. It's been bad.

The door opens for him, and he wants a second to gather his thoughts, to think of something clever to say but Aziraphale is there in front of him.

A click, the door settling closed behind them. It shuts the fear out.

Aziraphale's hair is long. He's wearing a blue shirt that Crowley's never seen before, and no glasses. He looks...Crowley gets stuck on the word 'beautiful' but it's so accurate.

'Hey,' and why is it suddenly so awkward to speak to the angel? It's not like they normally struggle to talk.

'Hello.' Crowley's dreamt of that smile being aimed at him for centuries, and while it had happened a few times after the world didn't end, it had still seemed too much, too soon. Now, it's almost over powering.

They stand in awkward, frozen silence for a moment. Aziraphale smiling, Crowley basking. He feels like he's missed a century again.

'Can I?'

'What?' As though Aziraphale's ever asked him for anything he doesn't want to give.

He has time to think, again, _Oh, this is what Aziraphale feels like_ \- they've hugged a few times since the Airfield, since the body swap; he's fallen asleep on the couch and woken up with Aziraphale sitting alongside him, stroking his hair. They don't have to keep that barrier up any more.

But he doesn't know what Aziraphale's hand feels like on his cheek; isn't familiar with the gentle pressure tracing down the sharp angles of his face, the tentative drag across what he thinks is probably fairly impressive stubble. It's new and so very wonderful.

'Crowley. How I've missed you.'

He tries to say something and can't, because Aziraphale's face is incredibly close to his. Nods instead, and that brings them even closer, touching distance. Kissing distance. No distance.

Aziraphale tastes of something sweet. Beautifully, impossibly sweet, and all the rough touches of earlier were nothing compared to how gentle he is. Like home, Crowley thinks, fierce and absurd, as though any demon has ever known what home is like, and he throws his arms around Aziraphale, pulls him closer without breaking the kiss.

It's easier than he'd ever thought it would be, a dance where the two of them apparently know the steps by instinct.

It's also, he thinks, when they finally pull apart, a much better reason for his legs to be trembling.

'Maybe...maybe we should have talked about that first?' Aziraphale asks. He's holding onto Crowley's hands, rocking back on his heels as though unsure of what they're doing.

'Nah.' It's not quite as terrifying as opening the window blinds earlier, but it's not far off. He reaches out and touches Aziraphale's hair, the snow soft curls of it all, white as sea foam. 'Nah, it's good.'

***

They talk, both of them. Grim talk for the most part, dark words, and Crowley's glad that he slept through most of it, gladder still that he's somehow sat curled against Aziraphale on the couch, their shoulders pressed together.

('How many?' is one thing he asks, and Aziraphale's face twists in something like sickness.)

('Anyone we -' is another, and Aziraphale takes his hand and recites a few names. Grief shared is a strange thing, not lessened but somehow helping.)

They hold each other.

It's different to the 14th Century, Crowley tells himself. _Aziraphale is here_.

***

'Can I stay?' is something he doesn't manage to ask. Doesn't ask as Aziraphale suggests they have dinner, and makes them something; doesn't ask as he offers Crowley some of the cakes he's been working on. He does sit and watch him eat them.

'Can I stay?' he still doesn't ask, as Aziraphale makes him coffee, pours them wine later.

'Stay here tonight?' comes out of the blue, when he's stretching out his drink to make it last as long as possible.

He nods in response, the same gesture from earlier and Aziraphale responds in the same way. Kisses him, gently, sweetly, until Crowley can't think or remember, isn't aware of anything except the heat and safety of it all.

'I missed you.'

'I missed you.'

'I should have let you come over. I'm sorry.'

'Don' say that, angel. Not...not your fault. Was just following rules.'

'I missed you,' and they repeat it and repeat it between kisses, between touches, until it sounds so much like Crowley's other three words that he thinks it might mean the same thing.

'Bed?'

'Don't want to go back to sle...oh,' and he can feel himself burning, embarrassment and arousal mixed.

'I want you awake,' Aziraphale says. Grins.

It's easy, in the end, as he should have known it would be. Gentle and kind and other words demons aren't meant to associate with sex; the world narrowed down to this instant, this demand and want of their so human bodies. Easy to give in to, easy to rejoice in and apparently, impossible for him to do wrong.

Every time Aziraphale moves in him, he can hear 'our side' in the angel's suddenly hoarse voice. 'Don't think about it,' in the rake of Aziraphale's teeth across his neck, 'I'm glad you're here' in the firmness of the angel's hand stroking him to climax.

They hold each other afterwards, face to face, a tangle of bare limbs and sweat streaked hair. Crowley can't stop kissing him. He can feel the world outside, the fear still reaching across London, across the world. He can feel Aziraphale's wings, trying to edge into this reality to shield him. It's enough.

'You can go to sleep if you want, you fiend.' Aziraphale strokes down the length of his spine, pulls him closer. 'With me.'

Crowley stretches out, closes his eyes. 'In that case, I'll set my alarm early for the morning.' It means _I love you._


End file.
